


Hello Mr. Spider

by LeFay_Strent



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: M/M, Spiders, moxiety - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-26
Updated: 2019-05-26
Packaged: 2020-03-19 21:57:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18979141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeFay_Strent/pseuds/LeFay_Strent
Summary: He’s heard the screams of people whenever they lay eyes on him. They take one look at him, this monstrous being with too many limbs and eyes, and they quiver in fear and tears. He doesn’t blame them. He hides himself away, hoping to never hear those horrified screams.





	Hello Mr. Spider

There’s an old abandoned church up on a forested hill.

The owners lost funding years ago, and now it stands half renovated, scaffolding left behind under glassless windows. The exposed beams of wood have rotted away from the elements, and the rafters—some of them cracked or broken under the weight of time—bear nests of birds who are free to roam. A large part of the ceiling caved in at some point, allowing both moonlight and sunrays to shine through.

Most people think the old place is haunted. They’ve heard stories from curious teenagers and irresponsible adults who’ve wandered up there despite the risk of stairs collapsing or the ceiling caving in. They’ve heard things, seen something. Ghosts? El Chupacabra? Moth Man? They don’t know, just that _something_ is there.

Virgil wants to see it. He wants to go up there, take a shot of this thing with his camera, and prove that it exists. The extraordinary is out there, and he’s gonna be the one to find it.

So he goes up on that hill one night, all by himself because as paranoid and cautious as Virgil is, he’s also reckless like that. A walking contradiction whose heart races in a mantra of, “Oh god, this thing is gonna eat me,” even as his legs carry him forward up the graveled path. His boots crunch too loud in the dark, and Virgil is glad for the flashlight he carries.

He enters the looming building. The heavy wooden door groans at his entrance. He winces and slips in as quick as he can, not bothering to close the door. If whatever’s here hasn’t heard him yet, he doesn’t need to make any more noise. Besides, having a quick exit path is never a bad thing.

It’s oppressively dark inside. The musty air wisps at his nose, making him want to sneeze and cough at the same time. He shines his flashlight and the dust motes glide lazily through the beam of light.

There’s not much inside the rooms. With construction never finishing, there’s no furniture, just the barren rooms filled with nothing but left-overs the workers never took with them. The lobby’s floor is half done, a stack of tile lying by the wall. There’s a few front offices and bathrooms with exposed plumbing. In certain places, Virgil can see where nature is starting to encroach. Vegetation sprouts around the open windows, and there’s a small animal hidden away in one of the offices. Virgil can’t tell what it is, just that it scares the shit out of him as it squeaks and darts out the window.

Virgil explores more, heading into the sanctuary. There are no pews, and one of the staircases heading up to the second-floor balcony isn’t close to being finished, though the bare-bones structure of it is there. A large chunk of the ceiling has been broken, the top of a fallen tree leaning inside. A bad storm must have blown it into the church. Virgil can see past the leafy branches and glimpses the starry sky and full moon. He’s hyper-aware that the wall can collapse at any moment and the tree will fall the rest of the way without its support. Virgil tries to stay a safe distance away.

If nothing else, the place looks pretty sweet in that post-apocalyptic-world way. If the building had been completed, the church would have been beautiful. But there’s a different kind of beauty in what he sees here.

He takes a picture. 

And then another.

Another snap of his camera. There’s a lot to take in. And even if Moth Man or whatever isn’t chilling out here, these images will be great to add to his collection.

Minutes pass and Virgil has honestly relaxed in the quiet peace. He really shouldn’t have. He checks one of the pictures. He’s on the second floor now, having taken the other staircase up to the balcony. He squints at the camera’s screen, seeing a large blur up in the rafters somewhat above where he now stands.

“What?” he says to himself, and his voice echoes through the expansive room.

He focuses the camera towards that same spot, takes another picture. But now that he’s focusing, he hears shuffling up there, maybe a squirrel? But no, he catches a peek of the image, and whatever is up there has moved a couple feet, and it’s _big_ , and he can see features stick out more prominently in this one, and he swears to God there’s a face in the middle of it—

Virgil sucks in a breath, his ears tuning in to more shuffling, and without thinking he takes a couple steps back to get away.

The construction workers never installed a railing on the balcony. Virgil’s feet slip off, and suddenly he’s free falling. His breath catches in his throat, and his heart beats out one sharp, frantic thump against his ribcage.

He lands, but the floor beneath him moves with him, as if it’s turned into a baseball mitt to catch him. That doesn’t make any sense, but Virgil really can’t open his eyes at the moment to confirm. He just knows that his whole body is still tensed painfully tight in preparation of all his bones breaking. He thinks he’s still alive. Or maybe the roaring in his ears is what you hear when you’re passing through that tunnel of light? Well, that’s if Virgil made it to Heaven. He kinda doubts it, with as pitch black as everything is right now.

Someone’s talking to him. There’s definitely a voice right now, and Virgil doesn’t think it’s God either. It’s right by him, or above him. Something. It’s hard to focus at the moment, since Virgil is preoccupied with determining whether or not he’s dead right now.

“It’s okay. I’ve got you. You’re okay.”

Virgil’s shaking. He only realizes he’s shaking because one of his arms move from where they’d been clenched around his camera, hugging it to himself. He blindly reaches out and grips at the material of the baseball glove that’s holding him right now.

Wait—no, that’s stupid, it’s not a glove. That’s a person. Virgil gets the impression he’s being held by someone, and he’s gripping at the material of a shirt, right at their collar/chest area. There’s something brushing back Virgil’s bangs—a hand.

He blinks his eyes open slowly before he’s finished deciding if he wants to see. It’s not that much more helpful. He lost his flashlight in the fall, and the ceiling is only letting in so much moonlight. Virgil sees the shadowy outline of the figure holding him. Their hold is encompassing and secure. Despite this and the fact that they’ve stopped moving, Virgil can’t shake off the sensation of falling, like his stomach is still plummeting down. If it wasn’t for this random person saving him—

“I could have died,” Virgil breathes out. “Oh my god, I could have died.”

“Shhh, it’s okay. You didn’t. It’s safe now. I promise,” the person soothes him. Their arms tighten around Virgil, and for a moment he just wants them to squeeze so tightly until it smothers the suffocating feeling straining his lungs.

Virgil swallows, fails, and tries again. His other hand lets go of his camera, and now both of his hands are clinging to the person. He stares at what must be their shoulder, and he senses their face is right by his, their reassurances continuous and grounding.

“You’re alright, kiddo. Take a deep breath. That’s it. Let it out. You’re doing great. Now take another breath."

Their voice is light but deep enough to be masculine. They must lift or something too because they’re holding Virgil as easy as a baby. And they caught Virgil, right? As he fell? They must be crazy strong. What was this crazy strong person even doing out in the church? Did they follow Virgil up here? Were they already up here, either another thrill-seeker or maybe just a homeless person? Or maybe it was fucking Moth Man, who knows.

Virgil should really ask to be put down now.

“Am I heavy?” Virgil blurts out instead. Hey, he nearly just died. It’s not his fault he isn’t thinking straight.

The person pauses only for a second before hurrying to soothe Virgil’s frayed nerves. “No, not at all. You’re okay. You’re okay, right? Nothing hurt?" 

Virgil swallows again. Why was this person being so nice on top of saving his life? Virgil’s hands should really stop clinging to their shoulders now.

“Um—y-yeah, I think? Yeah. I’m okay. Okay. I’m okay,” he says, taking deep breaths and blinking too fast. He’s talking stupidly. He’s acting stupid. What’s wrong with him?

“That’s good. That’s really good,” they say. Virgil doesn’t know if he imagines it, but he thinks they hesitate again. “Can . . . can you tell me your name?”

“Uh, it’s Virgil. My name, it’s Virgil. Or Virge. Whatever. He/him pronouns. Yeah, um . . . yeah. You? What’s uh, your name?”

Virgil feels them nod more than sees it. If he squints and thinks past the panic he’s coming down from, he can see their hair sticking up in places, short.

“. . . my name is Patton. Oh, and I use he/him pronouns too, I guess.”

“Okay, cool,” Virgil says, because he doesn’t know what else to say.

“Cool,” Patton echoes. He’s still holding Virgil like he’s nothing, arms not straining under the weight. His arms feel thick under Virgil’s legs and at his back. “Feeling any better now, Virge?”

“Yeah, I think I’ll live,” Virgil says and huffs out a laugh. That wasn’t really funny. The discomfort of the situation he’s in is catching up to him. Virgil pries his fingers away from their death-grip on Patton’s shirt. He hugs his camera again. “Uh . . . yeah, I think—I think you can let me down now.”

The arms tighten around him. Patton seems unsure, glancing around the area for a moment. Virgil glances too, realizing that Patton is tall, since the ground is further off than he expects.

“Okay . . .” Patton says, his voice subdued. “You’re sure, though?”

“Yeah, I think I’m okay now,” Virgil says and even kinda believes it.

“Okay . . .” Patton repeats in the same way. He gently lowers Virgil to the ground. Virgil’s knees are admittedly weak, but he stays standing. Patton leans back.

“So, uh, thanks. For, you know—” Virgil is saying when he looks up and takes in the full scope of Patton.

At first he thinks there’s metal prongs. They’re large and come up to Virgil’s chest, bent sharply in right angles. No wait, they’re kind of moving a bit. They’re attached to whatever Patton’s wearing. But no, that’s not quite right either.

In confusion, Virgil backs away a little, side-stepping over a random tree branch that’s fallen inside. It causes Patton to turn more towards the light the open ceiling provides, and there’s something about Patton’s eyes, like they’re too dark and there’s bits of something all around them.

He’s also like nine feet tall, no joke.

“Please don’t scream,” Patton pleads, holding up his hands. And Virgil stands there stumped.

Patton’s hands, there’s too many of them. The arms that were holding Virgil, the ones that felt so strong and secure—there’s four—no, six? There’s six arms. And he’s also got spider legs. Like someone took the top half of a man and glued it together with a giant spider body.

Virgil doesn’t say anything. He’s too busy staring.

Patton isn’t reassured by the staring. The more Virgil stares, the more anxious his voice becomes. He takes a step towards Virgil—and whoa, all the legs move. How many legs are there?

“I swear I won’t hurt you,” Patton’s pitch goes higher, more desperate. With his face closer to the light now, Virgil can decipher what’s different about his eyes. “Please don’t be scared.”

“Dude,” Virgil finally gets out. “How many eyes do you have?”

“I . . .” Patton falters, clamming up. His face pinches in apprehension, making all of his eyes squint too. They’re all black, a set of them right where a regular human’s is (if not a little bigger and slightly shaped different). And there’s a cluster of smaller ones around those.

Virgil’s the one to take a step closer this time. “And your legs, how many legs? Can you climb walls with them? Oh shit, can you make webs too?”

Another step closer. Patton stumbles back a step under the attention, his six arms folding into and around his torso. He’s wearing a t-shirt with enough arm holds for all of them. Patton darts his gaze around, too nervous to settle on one thing. His mouth opens and closes, and Virgil can see the glint of spider fangs.

“You have _fangs_ ,” Virgil exclaims.

“I’m sorry!” Patton lets out, overwhelmed. He’s practically cowering.

Virgil backtracks and holds up his hands. “Whoa, hey, wait, no. I didn’t mean—it’s _okay_. It’s okay, Patton.”

Patton whines uncertainly in the back of his throat, his spider legs squirming as if he’s prepared to run away. And to be honest, Virgil can guess why.

“I’m not scared,” Virgil tells him, packing as much sincerity into his voice that he can muster.

“Y-you’re not?” he asks in disbelief.

Virgil shakes his head. Then he can’t help but grin a little. “No. You’re so fucking cool.”

Patton stops squirming. He doesn’t retreat further when Virgil goes closer and keeps asking questions because his curiosity and excitement get the better of him. Virgil doesn’t run away, not even when Patton starts crying in hiccupping sobs.

Virgil is paranoid and cautious, but he’s also that kid in elementary school who picked up the spider that had snuck into the classroom while all the other children ran away. It wasn’t something to be frightened of, not a thing to stomp out or cringe away from.

It was just scared, and Virgil could relate.


End file.
